Pain, anger went into Philadelphia abuse report

The investigation of molestation by priests was an ordeal for
witnesses, jurors, lawyers.

Victims wept. So did jurors, hearing story after story of childhoods
lost to rape and molestation by trusted priests.

The grand jury investigation of sexual abuse in the Philadelphia
Archdiocese became a grueling three years of outrage, anguish, frustration,
legal sparring - and tears.

"To see a grown man cry, oh, it was very disturbing,"
said Rosalind Arrington, the grand jury forewoman.

The jurors and prosecutors, some of whom grew up in Catholic churches
and parochial schools, were shaken as a disturbing picture emerged
from church files: evidence that top church officials knew of the
abuses, and covered them up.

"It's an experience that I think forever changes you,"
said Maureen McCartney, one of the prosecutors on the case, who
is now a law professor at Temple University.

"It's something that you'll never forget."

District Attorney Lynne M. Abraham announced the grand jury probe
in April 2002 at the height of the national abuse scandal, vowing
to investigate "all allegations involving priests, whether
they are dead, dismissed or retired."

The investigation went on for so long that one grand jury expired
and another took its place - starting from scratch. Priests died
or retired. Prosecutors and detectives moved on to other jobs. One
cardinal stepped down and another took over.

At first, there were pledges of cooperation.

But relations soon turned ugly, as prosecutors jostled with church
lawyers over which files would be turned over.

The bitterness lingers. Lawyers for the church say the archdiocese
"cooperated fully," but prosecutors have a different view.

"The archdiocese and its lawyers obstructed the grand jury's
investigation at every turn," the District Attorney's Office
said Thursday.

For prosecutors, the key find lay in the archdiocesan "secret
archives" - files required by canon law to be kept under lock
and key, available only to the archbishop and a handful of deputies.

These documents provided lurid details of assaults on children,
as well as medical and psychiatric records and, importantly, internal
letters and other records that showed how the archdiocesan hierarchy
dealt with abuse allegations.

Eventually, the District Attorney's Office collected more than
45,000 documents, stored by prosecutors in a 10th-floor conference
room that they dubbed "the confessional."

One prosecutor said the evidence was shocking from the start.

"The biggest 'Oh wow' moment was when I read the first file,"
said former Assistant District Attorney William Spade, who spent
two years on the case before leaving for private practice.

"I remember just being shocked by it."

The investigation turned up allegations against 169 priests, and
the District Attorney's Office examined 63 of them in detail.

Prosecutors said the paper trail soon led directly to the top ranks
of the archdiocese and to its two former archbishops, Cardinals
Anthony J. Bevilacqua and the late John Krol.

One by one, victims came forward to testify, often in hushed tones,
telling strangers painful and intimate secrets they had hidden for
years.

They told of being raped and assaulted by priests in church rectories
and church sacristies, in Shore houses and on camping trips.

Arrington, 57, of West Philadelphia, said the stories were traumatizing.
Many of the victims had ended up as alcoholics or drug addicts,
or in failed marriages.

"There were a few I felt I just needed to hug them,"
said Arrington, a Baptist who works for the state Department of
Public Welfare. "It was really bad."

For some victims, the decision to speak out was wrenching.

John Delaney, 33, of Northeast Philadelphia, moved some people
to tears as he testified that his parish priest had raped him for
years, beginning when he was 11.

"What I did here was one of the toughest things I ever did
in my life," he said he told the grand jury.

Delaney understood that no criminal charges could be filed, because
the abuse happened so long ago, but he asked the panel to recommend
changes in the law - a suggestion the grand jury followed.

"I told them if they couldn't do anything for me, at least
try to make the laws change so this doesn't happen to your kid or
to your nieces and nephews," he said.

Some of the evidence was stomach-turning.

One priest, the Rev. Thomas J. Smith, staged church Passion plays
in the 1980s and had the student playing Jesus whipped so severely
that he had welts and cuts. One victim testified that Smith would
poke him in the penis with pins.

A psychologist hired by prosecutors testified that the church had
a sadomasochist on its hands, a risk to children.

At the time of the testimony in 2003, Smith was a priest in good
standing, in regular contact with mentally impaired children.

Smith, who declined to answer questions before the grand jury,
has since been removed from ministry.

Other accused priests were called in to testify. About three dozen
invoked their Fifth Amendment right against self-incrimination.

Even when confronted with the abusers, Arrington felt flashes of
sympathy, she said.

One priest was hard of hearing; another came in a wheelchair.

"What were you thinking?" she found herself wondering.

As horrifying as the details were, prosecutors concluded that none
of the abuse fell within the statute of limitations.

But the grand jury continued to examine possible wrongdoing by
church officials.

Prosecutors called Bevilacqua himself to testify. They debated
beforehand how to address him. Someone suggested they call him "Your
Eminence."

"I said, 'There's no way I'm calling him 'Your Eminence,'
" said former prosecutor Spade. "We ended up calling him
'Cardinal.' "

Now 82, Bevilacqua appeared before the panel 10 times for a total
of 27 hours.

Lawyers for the archdiocese say Abraham's "inquisitors"
were combative and hostile, grilling "Mr. Bevilacqua"
on everything from his reading to what he said when he knelt to
accept the cardinal's red biretta from Pope John Paul II.

Spade doesn't remember it that way.

"We showed him the same respect that we would show any other
witness, no more, no less," Spade said.

Arrington said Bevilacqua came across as "evasive."

"He's a lawyer, so he's pretty smart," she said, adding
that the questioning did become contentious. "He knew exactly
how to answer those questions."

As the inquiry wore on, ultimately becoming the longest-running
such investigation in the nation, prosecutors began grappling with
a different question: whether they could charge the church hierarchy
or the archdiocese as an institution.

Prosecutors had intense disagreements on this question, with the
debate at times dissolving into shouting matches.

At one point, lawyers discussed the possibility that the archdiocese
might plead guilty to endangering the welfare of children.

But the archdiocese and Bevilacqua hired top criminal defense lawyers,
and plea negotiations ended.

Prosecutors reluctantly concluded that they could file no charges,
either against the abusive priests or against the church hierarchy.

"A travesty of justice," they fumed.

Prosecutors poured that outrage into a 418-page report, written
by Assistant District Attorney Mariana Sorensen with help from colleagues
Ronald Eisenberg and Anthony Pomerantz.

No typical legal brief, their report is suffused with a tone of
near-fury. It contains graphic descriptions of assaults, and contrasts
them with the bland bureaucratic language of church memos. Again
and again, it lays the blame at Bevilacqua's feet.

Church lawyers blasted the report. They said that prosecutors,
frustrated about their inability to file charges, twisted the evidence
to demolish Bevilacqua's reputation. A lawyer even called it "anti-Catholic."

Arrington, however, said that the Catholics on the grand jury were
offended and maybe "a little more affected" by what they
heard.

"We had just as many Catholics saying, 'How could they do
that?' "

Another grand juror, Aquilla Allen, an IRS tax examiner from Southwest
Philadelphia, said she had grown up Catholic and found it hard to
fathom how abusive priests had behaved - and how the church hierarchy
failed to report the abuse.

"It was hard because you don't even want... to think that
this is happening in any church, in any religion - but especially
not in the one that you were brought up in," said Allen, who
said she became a Methodist when she went to live with an aunt after
her mother passed away and later, as an adult, remained Protestant.
"I would have a very difficult time... if I was still a Catholic,"
she said. "I don't think that I would be able to remain."

She said the gut-wrenching experience of listening to one distraught
victim after another hit her and her fellow jurors hard. "We
had tissues all over the place," Allen said.

Even though no new priests were charged, the victims said the report
brought a measure of justice.

"I think what they did was outstanding," said John McDonald,
who said he and his two brothers were abused by a priest.

"It's out there for everyone to see, and it will be there
for decades... . Bishops all over the country have been keeping
sexual abuse in a very dark place. Now it's out into the light."